


Into Which They Are Tied

by anathemagerminabunt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkwardness, Emotionally Repressed, First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt/pseuds/anathemagerminabunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is backed into a corner, forced to admit his feelings for John. Neither man takes this very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Man is a knot into which relationships are tied. -- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry_
> 
>  
> 
> This is originally from an RP I once had with a stranger. I've rewritten a lot of it, but if you are said stranger, please let me know and I'll be happy to share the credit.

Where are you? SH

Are you still out with that tedious woman? SH

She's not tedious. JW

She's spent five minutes trying to talk to me about a garden, John. SH

Come home. I'm bored. SH

I'm in the middle of a date. JW

So? SH

Inquire after her husband's health, will you? It must be so difficult on their marriage when he's in Toronto. SH

She's not married. JW

No? Her shoes, right index finger, and the nape of her neck say differently. SH

I wish you were wrong sometimes. JW

***

It isn't until nearly forty-five minutes later that John returns home, slamming into the building and up the stairs. Curious at this unexpected display of rage, Sherlock meets him on the first landing.

"Why are you so determined to sabotage my love life?" John immediately demands.

Stepping back to allow John entrance, Sherlock whirls on his heel to trudge back up the stairs. He remains silent for a moment, answering only once they've finally reached the flat. "I'm doing nothing of the sort. And I'm not _determined_. I'm taking a healthy interest in your life and relationships. Isn't that what friends do? It's hardly my fault that you insist on dating unsuitable women."

John follows Sherlock inside. "Yeah, but--" he deflates, shrugging. "Who on earth should I date, then?"

To his credit, Sherlock doesn't falter. He's actually a little impressed with himself for that one. Instead, he makes his way into the kitchen, calling out, "Tea, John?" It can't be that difficult to make, not if John does it multiple times a day. Where did they keep the kettle? He opens a cupboard at random, studiously avoiding John's gaze.

John sighs, pulling the kettle out of the cupboard above the stove, and hands it to Sherlock. "Deflecting won't work, Sherlock. Who? Molly? Sally? If you say Greg, I'm going to punch you."

Sherlock presses his lips into a thin line, setting the kettle down with a little more force than necessary. Snide, he spits out, "Oh, no, I would never. You've certainly made it clear to the entire greater London area how very not gay you are." He starts the water, annoyed that this leaves his hands free. "You and Molly, there's a thought. You could spend the entire date talking about me, how thrilling."

John's eyebrows draw together. "Are you okay?"

Damn. If he's not careful, Sherlock will end up tipping his entire hand and letting John know is definitely not acceptable. 

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm fine. You?"

"Fine." John pulls two cups out of the cupboard and plunks a tea bag in each. "Is something bothering you? You could just tell me, for once.”

"It's better that I don't." Sherlock watches John ready their mugs, mesmerized by the sight of his hands before managing to snap himself out of it. "Not this. It's fine, there's nothing to worry about. Just a personal problem that I'm solving."

John turns to face him while the water boils, back against the counter top. "Talking will make you feel better, Sherlock."

A bitter laugh escapes him. "No. No, I can assure you, talking in this case will do the exact opposite. Talking will only exacerbate the issue and lead to a fallout I'd rather avoid." Absently, as though speaking to himself rather than John, he adds, "I just need some time to get over this. Then everything will be like it was."

"Over it? Over what?"

As the kettle begins to whistle, Sherlock steps toward the counter and busies himself with the tea. "Over my problem," he eventually replies, back to John.

John reaches out to grab Sherlock's wrist and stop him from pouring an entire quart of milk into the tea. “I don't like the sound of this. Sherlock, _what_ is going on?”

Freezing in place, Sherlock closes his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. "John, please. Don't do this."

"Do what?" John's voice is soft. "Sherlock. Please. " He does not remove his hand.

"You," Sherlock tells him, throat tightening. His hand clutches the edge of the counter so hard that his knuckles are white. He can feel his pulse hammering just beneath the surface of his wrist, still tight in John's grasp. Nothing in the world can convince him to look at John and meet the pity and rejection sure to be there. "The problem is you."

John's hand tightens on Sherlock's wrist. He's silent for a moment, taking a few deep breaths before asking, "What do you mean?"

"Don't make me spell it out. You're an idiot but you're not that stupid," Sherlock snaps. He wants to rip free of John, storm into his room, and never come back out. He wants to leave the flat, head to a neighborhood remembered from a life before, and inject himself with whatever it takes to forget this. He wants to turn those final few inches, close the space between them, and kiss John for all he's worth. He does none of these things. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, but..." John shakes his head. "You... I mean..." His fingers slacken slightly around Sherlock's wrist, but he does not let his hand fall.

"Spare me the speech." Sherlock finally sets down the milk, pulling away to stride into the sitting room, tossing over his shoulder, "You understand and it's all fine, but you're just not like that, and while you value our friendship and I do mean a great deal to you, you'd hate to jeopardize that. You're sorry and just feel awful about letting me down, but you're sure that I'll bounce back in no time once I see this is really for the best." He stops in front of the mantle. "Is that about right?"

John watches Sherlock's progress across the sitting room. "No, actually. But if you'd rather assume that than listen to me, that's fine." There's a note of venom in his voice.

"No?" Eying John casually, he gestures. "Then by all means, go ahead. I await my gentle 'letting down' with bated breath."

"No, that's fine." There is far more than a note of vitriol in his voice now. "You're always right, aren't you, so of course you're right about _this_. So I think I'll just-- I don't know, go get drunk or something, and fulfill your expectations, and then we'll both be happy." John has moved to stand within a foot of Sherlock spitting the words in his face.

"Ah, yes, the fine Watson tradition of drinking when faced with something you'd rather avoid," Sherlock snarls back. "What else am I supposed to assume? You go out of your way to make sure all of London knows we're not involved and that you're not, god forbid, _gay_. Oh, but clearly, that's an indication of just how for this you would be! How foolish of me!" His voice is steadily rising with each word, growing loud enough that he's sure Mrs. Hudson can hear them-- not that he cares. "Happy?!? You think I'm happy like this? Do you think I _enjoy_ this? It's killing me, John, and if you don't see that you're as oblivious as I've always said."

"And you're a fucking prat!" Mrs. Hudson can definitely hear them now. "Has it ever occurred to you, Sherlock, that maybe people aren't perfect? That they can get scared and confused? That you just--" He throws his hands up. "Whatever. I'm going out. Text me when you're through with your tantrum." He turns to go, pausing in the doorway. "You're not the only person in the whole world with _feelings_ , Sherlock." 

And then he's gone.

"Damn it!" Sherlock slams his palm against the mantle, knocking a pile of papers to the floor, and yet he only feels worse.

He's ruined everything. He should have kept his mouth shut like planned. He should have realized that no good could come from telling John the truth, not when he's _him_. As in everything else normal and ordinary, Sherlock has failed, and in the process possibly ruined the only thing that matters.

With a growl, he stomps into the kitchen, grabs the two mugs of tea, and hurls them at the wall.

***

It was inappropriate of me to drag your family's alcoholism into this. SH

Yes. It was. JW

I regret doing so. SH

I shouldn't have left. JW

I'd be willing to keep my assumptions to myself if you think you could stand to return. SH

Please. SH

Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be fine. JW

***

Fifteen minutes later, John is pushing open the door, hesitantly stepping into the flat. He glances toward the sofa, where Sherlock lies sprawled. Licking his lips, he opens his mouth and closes it a few times before finally saying, “Hi.”

Sherlock rolls over to face him, lifting his head minutely. "John." He doesn't trust himself to speak beyond that. Not unless he wants another argument.

John sighs and buries his head in his hands. "Look. We really... that wasn't the best way to handle that."

"No," Sherlock agrees. "No, it wasn't. I should have--" He sucks in a breath, staring toward the ceiling. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing anyway, but I find when you're added to the equation, everything gets... confusing."

"I know the feeling," John says without looking over. "I know I'm... I don't know. An idiot. But I was-- I am really confused. I mean, you're..." he gestures in Sherlock's general direction, “and I like women. And I just don't know what to do with you 'cause..." He groans. "Please don't make me spell it out."

"Oh. _Oh_." Sherlock sits up suddenly, eyes wide. "But you... oh." If he thought his mind was whirling before that is nothing compared to now. "You're straight. I mean, no, obvious. Stupid. What I'm saying is you... for me? You're not just saying this is some misguided attempt to make me feel better?" He huffs. "Listen to me. I'm as coherent and witty as Anderson, Christ."

"I'm not trying to make you feel better." John is staring at the floor, cheeks flushed.

"What--" Sherlock looks away, swallowing hard. "What do you expect from me? What do you want?"

"I don't know." John finally glances up. "What do you want?"

"You." Sherlock replies. He can feel his embarrassment rising and he hates himself no small amount for it. "However that is. You, and I don't want to share."

John blinks rather more rapidly than Sherlock is accustomed to. "Oh." He clears his throat. “Yeah. That... yeah. Good."

"Good? You're sure?" he presses, needing to be absolutely certain. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable." Rising to his feet, Sherlock takes a few cautious steps toward John. "You know me. I didn't reach this... conclusion about you lightly. I can't take or leave this. I _can't_."

"I know." John's eyes lock onto Sherlock's face. "I'm sure."

Eyes flickering over John, Sherlock takes a few moments to truly _see_ him. He's scrutinizing in an effort to gather all the data he can, not that any of it makes sense quite yet. "So what do we do now?" Sure, he'd _like_ to lean down, haul John upwards, bring their lips together, and kiss him until John's veins pump nothing but _SherlockSherlockSherlock_ , but that seems a bit premature.

John shrugs, and then almost laughs. "I don't know why this is so difficult. I mean, normally, this is the part where I kiss the girl and things get good. But I don't..." He glances at Sherlock. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "And you think I would be against that. Right." He sighs. "John, are you under the impression that I'm adverse to sexual touch?"

"Are you?"

"Not particularly, no." Lips twisting into a smile for a brief second, he adds, "From you least of all." He tosses all caution to the wind, bringing his hand to rest on John's while his fingers lightly brushing against the skin of his inner wrist. "But this is new to you, isn't it? I could understand if you weren't sure."

"You've slept with men?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I told you _girlfriends_ aren't my area, John. When you inquired after a boyfriend, I simply said I didn't have one. Which, you'll recall, was true." He shrugs. "Not often, of course. I've never had much of a sexual appetite. But there was Victor and a meaningless man after university. No one since, not until..." His touch grows firmer, pressing into John. "Does that surprise you?"

"I think I recall telling you that it was all fine." John stares at their fingers. "And you want... me?"

"Want does not even begin to encompass it," Sherlock admits, tracing nonsense patterns against warm skin. "But essentially, yes. You occupy my thoughts. Every thought."

"Every thought." John catches the hand. "If you were looking for the opportune moment to kiss me, Sherlock, this might be it."

After a beat, bending at the waist, Sherlock brings his free hand to John's head and tips it back. He waits for a moment in order to give John plenty of time to change his mind, then leans in and presses their lips together with heartbreaking gentleness.

When they eventually break apart, the smile that he shoots John is involuntary and completely genuine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was supposed to be a one-shot. Instead, here we are, with a second chapter of all porn. This is purely PWP, fair warning, and follows immediately after the first chapter.

The kiss is careful, soft and beautiful, and Sherlock cannot think of a single thing he'd rather be doing at the moment. When John pulls away and finally looks at him with wide, endlessly deep eyes, Sherlock thinks that he would very much like to get lost in them.

Breath hitching, Sherlock curls his fingers in John's hair. He meets John's gaze, unable to look away, and slides his hand up John's arm to rest at his bicep. Bent over like he is makes his back protest, but he ignores that for the time being. "Good?"

"Good,” John agrees after a beat or two. "I'll stand up, yeah?"

Sherlock huffs out a small laugh. "My spine thanks you." He steps back, fisting his hands in John's shirt and hauling him to his feet, wasting no time in kissing him again and pulling them flush together. This time around, the kiss is harder, more urgent, desperate and bruising. John fists his hands in Sherlock's hair and drags them as close as possible, closer. Always closer. He drops a hand from Sherlock's curls to fumble with the buttons on his shirt. "John," Sherlock gasps, taken aback by the surge of arousal racing through him. "Oh, god, you're sure? Of course you are, you..." Cutting himself off, he presses in for another kiss, swiping his tongue against John's lower lip.

John groans, a small sound against Sherlock's mouth, and parts his lips to let Sherlock explore. He's managed three buttons at this point, enough to expose smooth skin, which he runs his fingers over. Despite the newness of the entire situation, despite how quickly everything is moving, it feels right. Somehow it is right, very right, if the fit of Sherlock's trousers is any indication.

A small strangled noise escapes Sherlock before he can rein it in. The feeling of John's fingers against his chest is maddening, sensation clouding his mind. He can't think and it is _glorious_. Smoothing down John's shirt, he slips his hands beneath the fabric to dance over John's stomach. He's turned on in a way he hasn't been in over a decade, almost lightheaded as his blood rushes south.

John pulls away to stutter Sherlock's name and to do away with the shirt, pushing it back over shoulders. Impatient, Sherlock leans back to tug on John's shirt with enough force to send the buttons flying. He tosses the remains to the floor, kissing and nipping down John's jaw before licking a stripe along the arch of his neck and sucking sharply at his pulse point.

"God, John, you..." Every inch of skin that John touches is tingling, slowly but surely breaking him apart.

John whines and pulls Sherlock closer by the hips, hands digging into pale flesh and sinking his teeth into the juncture of Sherlock's neck and shoulder.

"Oh Christ." Sherlock's hips jerk forward on their own accord, pressing into John, and he's unable to stop the groan the rips from him. Tossing his head back, he scratches his nails through the spattering of chest hair and over John's nipples.

John tears himself away, panting. "Bedroom." It's halfway between a request and a demand.

Without a word, Sherlock grips John's wrist and tugs him into the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom. Kicking the door shut behind him, he spins them around until he has John pinned against the wall, diving in for another deep, bruising kiss, one hand working on the fly of John's jeans. In response, John presses his hips desperately forward, his tongue wrestling with Sherlock's and the rest of him fighting for friction.

Within moments, Sherlock has the infernal jeans undone and is unceremoniously shoving his hand against the hard heat of John's cock. He grips him through his pants, squeezing slightly, and groans, "Fuck, John.”

Letting out possibly the most indecent sound he has ever made, John begs, "P-please..." Sherlock gives a strained cry, thrusting against John. He needs to hear that sound again, and as often as possible.

Ducking his head down, he savagely bites down on an earlobe, slowly rubbing John through the fabric. He teases his thumb over the wet spot that's forming, shuddering with desire and impatience.

"Sherlock." John's breath hitches over a whimper and he reaches forward to undo Sherlock's fly, tugging down his trousers and palming him through his pants.

"Yes, that--" Sherlock bites down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and bucks roughly against John's hand. Panting, one arm bracing himself against the wall, he stroke firmly only a few more times before jerking out of reach. He closes his eyes, breathing, "I just... a minute. I need a minute." Fuck, he hasn't been this overwhelmed and out of control since giving up the drugs.

John leans back, breathing erratic. "You okay?"

Sherlock laughs, face flush and eyes shining. "Much, much better than that. I don't want this ending before it's begun. I want to take my time with you, John." He glances down, shoving his trousers and pants off in one fell swoop. Once he's completely nude, he does the same for John and does his best not to lose himself in the gorgeous sight of a naked John Watson, all that skin spread out for Sherlock to help himself to. "Get on the bed."

"Jesus." John practically trips over himself in his rush to comply. He lays on the bed, stretched out, and does not tear his eyes from Sherlock's torso, his arms, his _cock_. All so gorgeous.

"The things you do to me," Sherlock tells him, voice low and rough with arousal. He kneels on the bed, crawling toward John as he speaks. "All this time, left alone while you went out, knowing what you were doing with those women. Listening to you take those suspiciously long showers, knowing what I'd see if I just had the nerve to open the door and walk right in. Do you _know_ , John?"

"I thought about you." John's eyes have taken on a gleam and a hardness. "In the shower. It wasn't... not them, not usually. I thought about you. About this.”

Sherlock gasps, cock twitching at the thought. The idea that they've wasted all this time causes something in his chest to clench, and he throws himself at John. Pinning him to the bed, hips aligned in an achingly sublime way, he harshly kisses him, moaning. "Yes, yes, _this_."

John grinds his hips up, a desperate air enveloping him. "Please."

"God, yes, anything," promises Sherlock, and he means it. When it comes to John, he will do anything. Rotating his hips in one slow, firm circle, his blood boiling, he gasps, "What do you want? Tell me what you want, John, god, tell me."

"You. I want..." The words seem stuck in the other man's throat, caught and thick. "Sherlock. Please."

"Is it my hand?" he manages. He can't stop looking, eyes restless, darting from John's legs, to his chest, to his feet, to his arms, to his cock, to-- well, that seems like a good place to stop. Wrapping his hand around John, he strokes him carefully, dragging his foreskin over the head and back again. Sherlock exchanges a kiss, continuing, "Or my mouth? Is it that you want to fuck me, John? Or-- oh. D-do you want me to fuck you? Anything you want."

John arches into the hand. "I want--" He forces a deep breath. "You. I want to fuck you."

Sherlock can't even pretend to hide the cry this draws from him, fist tightening. He kisses John desperately teeth and tongue clashing, hissing, "Yes, god. Yes."

John drags his lips from Sherlock's lips to the shell of his ear. "I want to fuck you. Hard. Make you scream." The words are coming easier now, flowing between them.

"Oh _fuck_." Rutting is the only way to describe what he's doing, his cock harder than he can ever recall. Fisting the sheets with one hand, he twists his wrist on the upstroke and jerks his head. "The nightstand. I might-- I don't normally use anything on my own, but there might be something in the drawer. Quickly."

John reaches over and fumbles blindly. There's a tiny bottle of lube, barely enough to be practical, but with the way Sherlock's leaking it might be enough. He hands it over and spreads his legs.

Sherlock falters, wrenching the bottle from John's grasp. He licks his lips, eyes flickering, and asks, "Have you ever engaged in any sort of anal stimulation?" His voice is husky, impossibly low, and his hand is still moving.

John shakes his head, speechless, breathless.

"And you're sure?" He opens the bottle, frowning at the amount before grabbing John's hands and squirting some onto his fingers. Reluctantly pulling away and leaning back against the headboard, Sherlock lifts his knees and spreads his legs. "Take your time. Y-you're sure that you want this?"

"I'm okay." John peers at him. "It's fine, Sherlock. I want this."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock takes a few deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. John leans over, reaching between them to grasp the base of Sherlock's cock almost tentatively. He gives a few quick strokes, making a point of continuing his ministrations and teasing the slit every so often before reaching down past his scrotum to press his index finger against Sherlock. Just one finger, resting without pushing in, as he watches Sherlock for every minute reaction.

"Please." Sherlock is well beyond caring that this may hurt, that he has never begged before. "John." It is a conscious effort not to thrust up into his hand, and if he does not do something very soon, Sherlock cannot be held accountable for his own actions.

John brushes a feather-light kiss against the shell of Sherlock's ear, murmuring, "Relax. This will be slow, Sherlock, because I won't hurt you. Just relax and I'll do whatever you want." He gently pushes, sliding his finger in to the second knuckle and twisting carefully.

Sherlock's immediate reaction is to clench up. But he forces himself to relax, forces the ring of muscles to loosen. He trusts John, and so he grits his teeth and lies as still as he can. It's been so long, so very, very long.

"Breathe," John tells him, his free hand stroking Sherlock's flank. "There's no rush. If you want to stop, that's fine." A smile quirks. "It's all fine. Just tell me when you're ready."

"I'm fine,” Sherlock sharply replies. He calms his breathing, centers himself. "Please don't stop."

John clenches his jaw, breathing through his nose a few times, eyes closing briefly. Slowly, he begins to push his finger in before pulling almost entirely out, repeating the action a few times. Once Sherlock can feel that release of tension as he relaxes, he nods and John carefully adds a second finger, stretching the tight ring of muscle with deliberate movements. It hurts, but it's also achingly good.

"G-good?" John asks, voice unsteady. He twists his wrist, sliding his fingers in and out and with each press in, he approaches from a different angle until-- ah, there. Smirking, he rubs his fingers over the little bundle of nerves, eyes on Sherlock.

"That--good. Yes." His eyes close and his breath stutters. "More."

"You're gorgeous." On every third thrust he presses Sherlock's prostate, fingers scissoring until they're both convinced that adding a third finger won't do damage. Eyes wide and wild, John continues to mutter as he opens Sherlock up, his hand occasionally squeezing the base of Sherlock's cock. 

"Intoxicating. I've been told I have an addictive personality, John. You're better than any drug, fuck, you're fantastic. And you have no idea how good you are, do you?"

"Have you-- Jesus--" John speaks between groans and whimpers. "Have you seen yourself? Have you met yourself? I'm-- fucking _hell_ \-- nothing."

Sherlock's shaking, tightly wound as he desperately clings to what little control he has. Shaking his head, he insists, "Don't say that. You are brave, good, a fighter, compassionate, a beacon in the darkness. An illuminator of thought." Groaning, he gasps, "I'm ready. Oh, god, I want you."

John's eyes are bright. "Please, Sherlock. I need you."

"Jesus, John," he moans, as John slowly removes his hands. He reaches for the forgotten bottle of lube, cursing loudly. "I don't-- I haven't been sexually active in a long time, I don't have condoms. I'm clean, regularly tested, but..."

"It's fine. I'm clean, and I trust you." John considers. "If it bothers you, I have some, upstairs, but..." he bites his lip. "I don't really want to wait."

"God, no."

Sherlock opens the bottle, licking his lips as he carefully covers John's cock and revels in the groaning that the momentary relief of his hand brings. After a pause, he rips one of his pillows from the top of the bed and roughly shoves it under his hips. John slips between his legs and brings one hand to Sherlock's thigh, gripping tightly, and the other lines himself up. Slowly, with aching care, John presses the head of his cock into Sherlock. There's resistance of course, and he nobly refuses to move any faster than his glacial pace no matter what Sherlock's body is screaming for, but eventually he's past that barrier, a positively indecent sound wringing from Sherlock at the complete, full bliss of it all.

Arms shaking, John pushes forward with the barest hint of pressure. He's moving at barely a centimeter at a time, but the sensation of him above Sherlock, the weight of him on and in him, is all so overwhelming. Finally, what feels like eons later, he's completely inside Sherlock.

There is no movement for a minute, both of them adjusting. And then their eyes lock. Something courses through Sherlock, the kind of arousal that he's only felt-- well, to be perfectly truthful, that he's only felt while thinking about John. He hisses through gritted teeth, "Move."

John does just that, eyes fixed on Sherlock as he gradually draws out before pushing back in again. He cries out, digging his fingers into Sherlock's hip hard enough to bruise, and groans, "You feel so-- oh God."

"You feel so exquisite. Better than I could have imagine. John, fuck, John, if you could only see yourself." He feels impossibly full, impossibly stretched, but it is not bad. The pleasure of having John above him, inside of him, just overwhelms the pain.

"Yes, yes," John chants, expression twisted in pleasure. He begins to thrust in earnest now, nearly bending Sherlock in half in an effort to kiss him. When they break apart, he leans back, lifts Sherlock's leg high on his hip, and fucks the man like they've both always wanted.

Sherlock reaches, hands on every inch of skin he can reach, John's name falling from his lips. "John," Sherlock moans, and it's his lifeline, his very blood thudding with /John/. He tangles a hand in John's hair, clutching at him as he continues to be filled by that indescribable heat. "I haven't felt like this. Oh god." He drags John's hips closer, changing the angle with deliberate calculation. The next noise that falls from him is very nearly a scream. He is undone, he has surrendered. "I'm not going to last, John."

"No," John agrees, trembling with pleasure. Sweat forms on his brow, his lips red from abuse and eyes nearly black with arousal. Taking his hand from Sherlock's hair, he slips it between them and begins to stroke Sherlock's cock in time with their thrusts, rubbing the head on every upstroke. "I want to see you, _yes,_ come on, do it, yes--"

Sherlock holds on as long as he can, grasping desperately to the sensations and the words, and then he is gone, the orgasm ripping through him like a thunderous storm. His world whites out, he shouts John's name, and then he spills across his stomach and John's hand. He cannot recall feeling so good ever before. He thrusts against John through his orgasm and the after shocks, eventually batting his hand away as he chokes out, "John, yes, _John_. Come for me." Sherlock forces his eyes open so he can watch, so he can see the look on John's face. "J-John. For me."

"Anything," he moans. In that moment, John's self-control snaps and he pounds into Sherlock, head lolling and breathing erratic. It doesn't take long before he's stilling, mouth dropped open in a wordless cry as he comes hard. His orgasm is seemingly never ending as he makes frantic little mewling sounds, limbs trembling.

The sight of John coming undone at his hands is the single most wonderful thing Sherlock has ever seen, and that includes that case with the postal worker and the toes. It is, by far, the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen, and he hopes to god that he will see it again, see the complete loss of control that he has wrought in John Watson. He strokes a hand through tawny hair, calming and centering.

"If it's your intention to kill me," Sherlock intones, shaky, "I have to say that you have a much better chance than anyone before." He leans into John's touches for a moment before gently pushing him away and falling to further collapse onto the bed. Now that it's over and the haze of desire has lifted from his mind, Sherlock can feel the pure and utter panic creeping over him.

"Why would I kill you?" John pants, sinking down beside Sherlock and propping himself up on an elbow. "Sherlock. Why are you freaking out?"

"Death by arousal, that's got to be a new one, right? Surely it's not ordinary." Sherlock swallows hard, blinking at the ceiling as he waves a dismissive hand. "Don't. I can't think-- I mean that, I _can't_ think-- and it's terrifying and overwhelming. There's this heat in my chest because of you, and serotonin and oxytocin flooding my brain because of you. It's... frightening, a bit. Especially when I consider the fact that at any moment you could get up and leave and I'm positive that would destroy me more effectively than any cocaine cocktail or serial killer ever could."

John is silent for a moment. Then he rolls over, pulls Sherlock to face him. "I will never leave you, understand? Never."

Wordlessly, Sherlock grasps John's hand in his, clinging with white-knuckled intensity. After a moment, he nods. "Okay."

John pulls Sherlock to his chest, runs a hand through the dark locks. "I think-- that is, I think that I might love you."

It's like being doused in ice water (which Sherlock has experienced on more than one occasion, thank you). Everything stops for a moment before speeding up again, pulse quickening, breath catching in his throat. This is _the_ moment of Sherlock's life and he knows that with as much certainty as he knows anything. Eventually he nods. "Yes. Yes, that. What you said, that's good. I agree with it." He winces.

"It's fine, Sherlock." John pulls him closer. "If you don't... I just want you to know."

"John," Sherlock says harshly, "you can't possibly believe that I don't. After everything tonight, after everything that we've done and said, you can't _possibly_ , you're not terminally stupid." He sighs, pressing against John. "I'm not very good at saying things. Emotional, private things. Christ, my own mother died without ever-- look, if it's a problem, I can easily learn. Will learn, for you."

"It's not. I just..." John shifts so that Sherlock will be more comfortable. "I don't deserve you."

"Stop it. Stop that right now." Sherlock's voice is hard, his eyes flashing with warning. "That is patently false. You are the only person who could ever stand me for any given length of time. You _shot_ a man for me. Your loyalty should be used as the gold standard. You forgave me after I betrayed you and lied to you. How could you ever say that?"

"I'm not..." John shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Just know that I love you, okay?"

"Yes, all right." He doesn't fight the ridiculous grin that spreads across his face. Spending a few minutes in silence as he strokes his fingers over John's sweat-slicked skin, he eventually hedges, "What does this mean? Are we romantically involved?"

"Do you want to be?" John fights to keep the nervous tremor out of his voice.

Sherlock doesn't hesitate. "Yes, I believe so. I want you, John, in every conceivable way and a few that aren't. And I refuse to share."

"Then yes, I think we are... romantically involved." John grins. 

Sherlock mutters to himself, stretching sensuously along the bed. "Of course, you're forgetting the body parts in the kitchen, the insomnia, the violin-playing, the tempers, and that time I left you dangling over the Thames for three hours." He grins. "Sure you wouldn't rather change your mind?"

"Hmm. Yes." John swats him. "But no more heads in the icebox."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Where else am I supposed to put it, on the sofa?"

"You could just not bring heads home."

Shooting him a withering look, Sherlock remarks, "Let's not be delusional."

They sink against one another, a content and satisfied air creeping into the room.


End file.
